


Tamed

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Boy!Tony, Choking, General kink, Innocent!Peter, M/M, Marked underage even though they are both 17?, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Peter Abuses Google Searches, Teens in love, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Tony Stark is the opposite of Peter Parker. But he's everything Peter wants. Maybe it's time to live a little.





	Tamed

MJ stops talking in the middle of her sentence.

Ned, who has been dozing by her side for the last ten minutes of their lunch break, notices the silence and perks up, blinking sleepily.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“Tony Stark,” she says. “He’s looking at us.”

All the breath is sucked from Peter’s lungs. Suddenly his heart pounds. Is this what a heart attack feels like? He might be having a heart attack. The nurse who occupies a tiny room beside the counselor’s office isn’t going to be able to handle this cardiac episode. “What kind of look?” Peter asks. “Assess his look MJ. Does it say, ‘I want to pound your guts’? Wait, should I look? No—you should _stop_ looking—”

“It’s a look Peter,” she says. “See for yourself.”

Anxiety wars with curiosity. Somehow, curiosity wins, and Peter (be cool, Pete, be cool and casual) glances over his shoulder.

There’s nothing casual about the expression on Tony’s face. It’s apathetic, that’s true, but it is fixed and unflinching even as Peter’s entire lunch table stares back at him across the grassy quad. Around him are his friends—other seniors who have reputations for delinquency—and they laugh and joke raucously but Tony isn’t joining them at all. At the edge of his lips, a cigarette rests. Peter swallows. Smoking on school grounds is forbidden.

MJ throws up both of her hands, mouthing _What_? She’s the only one with the balls to do that. Peter’s never heard of Tony Stark hitting a woman, but the true depths of the older senior’s depravity are unknown. Unfortunately.

Tony takes his cigarette out of his mouth and points with it.

“Oh my god,” Peter says.

MJ points at herself. Tony shakes his head, points again. MJ points to Ned. Tony’s eyes roll noticeably even from this distance. He points one last time.

“He wants you, Petey,” MJ mutters.

Peter turns to her, glad Tony can’t see the expression on his face. He hopes it’s terrified—because terror is explicable at least. But god forbid the other boy see the pounding of Peter’s heart in his throat, the way his palms have started sweating, the nervous-anxious-excited energy that makes his stomach feel like it’s twisting inside out. “What does he want with me?”

“Maybe he wants to _pound_ you,” she says flatly.

God. Peter _wishes_. “I—I guess I should go over there,” Peter stammers. “See what he wants. Right?”

“Go get him, Pete,” Ned says, always the encouraging friend. He knows of Peter’s long withstanding crush on Tony and has always comforted him in those teenage traumatic lamentations of _Tony doesn’t even know I exist!_ Albeit, Ned usually responds with a _That’s probably a good thing_, but still. He’s a good bro.

Peter’s legs shake as he crosses the grass. There isn’t much time left to the lunch period, but the tables are still full of students enjoying the first real warm day of spring after a bitter New-York winter. Beside Tony’s table, a group of boys have a hacky-sack that they are kicking back and forth, and Peter has to circumvent them to avoid interrupting.

Then he is there. Standing right in front of Tony Stark.

Oh, the poetry he could wax about Tony Stark. The guy is so fucking handsome—movie star good looks, with a straight nose and well-shaped eyebrows and full lips. His eyes are the color of whiskey, framed with thick lashes. Not only is he so attractive it hurts (literally. If Peter jerks off anymore with this senior in mind, his dick might fall off, and he doesn’t fully trust Google when it says that such a thing is impossible), but Tony also is incredibly smart. They’re in all the same AP classes, with a course load that would probably put any other student to shame. Quick witted, verbally scathing, and with a reputation for fighting and other acts of juvenile delinquency, Tony is everything Peter isn’t.

He is everything Peter _wants_.

“H-hey. Hey Tony. What’s—what do you need? I mean, were you pointing at me? Oh, god. You weren’t, were you? Am I bothering you? I’ll just get out of your hair.”

Tony is watching him ramble, cigarette tipped with ash that needs tapped away. He isn’t smiling, but there is a slant to his eyes that makes Peter think that he finds the younger boy’s rambling amusing. His voice rumbles out from around the cigarette: “I pointed at you.”

“Oh, thank god. Well, I mean, not thank _god_, like, just—w-what did you need?”

Someone behind him snickers. He recognizes the sound: it’s the sound Flash Thompson usually is making when Peter’s around. A hand jabs between his shoulder blades causing him to stumble forward and nearly into Tony’s personal space. “How the hell are you in AP English, Penis?” Flash asks. “L-l-l-listen to you t-t-talk, fag!”

Peter can’t even look up, eyes on his shoes, feeling frozen with fury and embarrassment. He wishes that a hole would open up and swallow him—but Google says that’s not possible, either.

“You,” Tony says, pointing. When Peter glances up, he sees that he is pointing at Flash. His stomach twists. The few moments when Tony’s attention was on him might have been the best of his high school career. But now that attention has drifted on to someone else—someone better, probably.

“Yeah? What’s up, Tony?”

“C’mere.”

Tony puts out his cigarette on Flash’s arm. There is a sizzle, then a scream, and Peter watches with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. The sound of Flash freaking gets drowned out by the shriek of the bell, and then there is a teacher on them, dragging Flash and Tony towards the school even as Tony shakes off the grip of the woman and follows under his own volition. MJ puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, looking just as shaken and confused as he is. Even more so when Tony turns to look over his shoulder and holds up a hand in parting.

Lamely, Peter lifts a hand in return.

-

A shadow falls over Peter. He is squatting at his locker examining the heft of his AP calculus book versus the sheer volume of his western politics book, trying to prioritize what he needs to carry the twelve blocks back to May’s apartment, but then he is gone. Everything fades away except for that shadow and the shoes he can see from the corner of his eye: black combat boots with thick, quiet soles.

He inhales.

Peter has always had incredible senses; it’s a gift and a curse. Today, it’s a gift. Absolutely a gift. He can smell cologne: Dior. _Homme Intense_. He and MJ spent an entire afternoon at the Macy’s in Manhattan smelling perfumes under the guise of buying an early Mother’s Day gift for May, but if MJ wondered why he spent most of his time in the men’s cologne department, she didn’t ask. When he finally found the scent, it made his toes curl. Goosebumps bloomed on his arms. A tingling came over him—a warning that if he doesn’t cool off, he’d get _hard_.

When he glanced at the price, he lost the imminent boner: a _small_ bottle was over sixty dollars.

But _Tony Stark_ could afford things like that. His father owned Stark Industries, the most successful weapons manufacturer in the western hemisphere. The car Tony drove to school probably cost more than May made in a year. But Jesus, he looked good in it.

Everything about Tony Stark looks good. Peter takes his time the way he couldn’t earlier out on the quad, eyeing those combat boots, clean but worn, a silver ring threaded through the laces to catch on the sunlight out in the quad. The jeans are tight and dark, clinging to a form thicker than Peter’s own and no less strong. The belt around his waist is black leather, studded. Just the sight of it makes Peter swallow, throat convulsing, though he doesn’t know why. Today Tony is wearing a Black Sabbath shirt that is so well-worn there are holes in the hem, but considering it shows a hint of tanned, toned skin, Peter hardly minds the bold fashion choice.

A hand slams into the metal of the closed locker beside him. Peter flinches at the noise. Still on his knees, he looks up through his lashes to see that Tony is pressing a piece of paper flush to the lockers. His nails are painted black, chipping.

“I’m in trouble.” God, even his voice is potent, low and charming and melodic. If he isn’t careful, he’s likely to miss half the words the other senior says just to let the tone wash over him like waves on the sand, abrading his skin until he disintegrates. Licking his lips, Peter replays what Tony just said—for a moment, he thinks that Tony is talking about whatever punishment he’s likely to receive from using Flash Thompson as his personal ashtray—and then he gets a better look at the paper pressed to the locker.

Peter groans in sympathy. It’s a mandatory peer instruction form. It’s been all the rage these last two semesters at his high school. When a student is struggling in a course, the teachers will advise them to seek tutoring from more gifted students. But typically, Tony _is_ the gifted student. Especially in their math and coding classes. He squints and—ah. Shakespearean literature.

But _still_.

“How is a professed genius failing English?” Peter snarks. Then his brain catches up with his mouth, and he can feel the burn in his face as his mouth gapes at his own audacity. Tony fucking Stark could probably snap him in half with a look alone. “Oh, gosh, Tony that wasn’t—I—I’m so, so sorry—”

Tony sighs and leans against the lockers. It’s a move that should only work in 80’s brat pack films, but it’s working now. God, it’s working; Peter’s mouth feels dry as a desert, eyes tracking the curve of his torso and the cocking of his narrow hips. The older boy doesn’t laugh, but judging by the twitching of his lips, Peter thinks it might be a very close thing. “No sweat. My grades slipped last semester thanks to —ah—shifting priorities. I’m back on top again, but Mr. Brewer won’t get off my fucking back about this.”

_Shifting priorities_, yeah. Everyone has been talking about how hard Tony went last semester at the Homecoming afterparty, the winter formal afterparty, and every party in between. The rumors ranged from hard drugs to sex tapes to spending the weekend in jail when his father refused to bail him out until Monday morning. Personally, Peter doesn’t believe any of them: he scoured PornHub for like, three hours one day. If there was a Tony Stark sex tape, he would have found it.

Peter stands, hoping Tony doesn’t notice the way his knees are shaking. Tony’s attention on him is a compelling thing, and he finds himself opening the zipper on his binder and pulling out a pen. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll forge the sheet for you.”

The older boy blinks, slow. His eyebrows lift. When he says Peter’s name, the younger boy feels like he’s been electrocuted. Before today, he wouldn’t have put money on Tony even _knowing_ his name. “Peter Parker. Lying? To an academic professional? That’s entirely out of character. For _you_. Not me. But definitely for you. Why would you want to do that?”

Peter licks his lips, hands shaking under the older boy’s intense scrutiny. “I—I figured that’s what you were here for. To have me sign and say I tutored you so that you could get Mr. Brewer off your case.”

It isn’t fair, the way Tony softens. There’s nothing about this boy that hints at softness: not the dark clothes and the scowls and the antisocial behavior and the burn on Flash’s arm. But something in his face does soften, and it makes Peter want to melt. _Tony Stark has a heart_, he thinks. _Who knew_. “I’ve cut enough corners lately. My old man will kill me. Let’s just bite the bullet, and I’ll make it up to you. Swear.”

Those words make him feel the same way he felt after he first tried the tequila May keeps in her freezer: lightheaded and like there’s fire in his gut. He can’t imagine the kind of favor from Tony that might qualify as _making it up to him_, but he sees a myriad of images behind his eyes; his favorite is the one of Tony throwing Flash in a dumpster while Peter watches on. “I—o-okay. Yeah.”

“Your place or mine?”

Peter flushes. “Whatever you prefer.”

“Stark,” a teacher barks from down the hallway. “What are you doing on school property? Consider your suspension begun—do you want it _extended_?”

Tony rolls his eyes. He holds up a finger, the universal sign for _give me a fucking minute._ It makes Peter’s stomach clench with arousal. Tony has balls. Peter would never tell a teacher to wait.

“Let’s do yours,” he says. “Meet me out front in ten? I’m going to drop this shit—” shit being his schoolbooks, “—off in my locker.”

“Yeah, sure thing!” says Peter. His voice cracks in enthusiasm and he cringes. Jesus, could he be anymore adolescent? He hides his face in his locker listening to the soft sound of Tony’s boots walking away. Stuffing his book in his backpack, he slings it over his shoulder and goes to find MJ.

“You,” she says flatly. A colorful stack of fliers is wedged between her arm and her breast, thumbtack in the corner of her mouth. She puts her flier—promoting an international flower-planting event to help save the bees—over another flier—glee club sign ups. “You and Tony Stark. Together. Alone. Studying.”

“I don’t think we’ll actually _be_ studying,” Peter admits. “He says he knows what he’s doing—”

“Stop right there. If you aren’t studying, then _what are you doing, Parker_?”

His mouth gapes. He can feel himself begin to sweat, sticky underneath his arms and at his hairline. What _is_ he doing? Taking Tony Stark back to his apartment, and to what? Sit and stare at each other? Or—and he isn’t ashamed to admit that he gulps, throat convulsing with nerves—are they going to _hang out?_

“Peter.” MJ jabs his bicep with one of the pushpins until he yelps. “Look at me. Quit freaking out. You want him? This is an _opportunity_. Make the most of it.”

Her words are still ringing in his ears as he bounds down the steps of the school, bag slung over one shoulder. Since he was a young boy, Peter had been shy and sweet. The old women at the Methodist church May used to take him to on Easter and Christmas always used to pinch his cheeks with their wrinkled hands and tell May what a little gentleman he was growing up to be. He had a reputation for being a studious, soft-hearted, good boy.

A reputation like that was hard to shake, even now that he is seventeen years old. His classmates are enjoying their senior year, and while Peter isn’t having a bad time…he’s not sure that he’s ever had a _good_ time in his whole life. What other seventeen-year-old has never had alcohol except for sips from his aunt’s wine glasses and a few shots from her freezer? What other teenager his age has never even been to a party?

Peter hasn’t ever even been _kissed_.

For years, being so good was the safest route, a comfortable route, but now that Peter wants to let loose, he doesn’t even know how.

Tony Stark doesn’t look like he’s ever taken the safe route in his life. He pulls up to the front steps, tires screeching. Peter doesn’t know much about the make and model of cars—though he loves their engines—but this one is sleek, cherry red, curvy, and probably the sexiest inanimate object that he’s ever seen. Peter has drooled over it (and its driver) daily since Tony got his license months before Peter in Sophomore year and began driving to school instead of bussing or walking.

And now he’s going to take a _ride_ in it.

Giddy with a mixture of excitement and nerves, Peter tries not to stumble over his feet as he makes it down the last few steps. Tony reaches across the center console to open the door, pushing it open with his fingertips, though _why_, Peter has no clue.

“Thanks,” Peter says.

Tony doesn’t respond to that, even though Peter can feel the heavy presence of his gaze. He’s got his sunglasses on, dark ones that do nothing but show Peter his own blushing reflection. “What’s the address?”

Peter gives it to him and Tony speeds off. He takes the time to close his eyes and let his senses loose. The seat underneath him is real leather, textured like the palm of a warm hand. The car smells of _Homme Intense_, an undercurrent of cigarette smoke that clings to Tony, and a hint of winter-fresh gum that is in the center console probably. The engine purrs giving him a pleasant hum all over his body, and Tony’s knuckles brush against Peter’s knee when he needs to shift gears. God it’s intense. He feels like his senses have been rubbed raw in the most pleasant way, like that time he spent May’s whole day shift in his room seeing how many times he could cum in a row—four, by the way, but then his cock was too sore. His face is turning red, that tell-tale flush feeling rising in him just at the thought of masturbating.

“Parker. Hey. Come back to reality.”

Peter sits up, eyes wide. They’re outside his apartment building.

“There’s no room on the street, does your building have a lot?”

“Oh. Yeah, around back. Turn up here.”

Tony does. When they get out of the car, Peter laments it. Chances are, that will be the only ride it in he will ever take.

“What’s your apartment number? I’m going to smoke before I come up.”

“You could smoke in the apartment,” says Peter even as he knows that smoking is prohibited inside the building. He could crack a window, surely. Then the thought of Tony in his bedroom, sitting by the headboard where the window rests, lounging on the sill and blowing smoke down onto the street—god, it makes him shiver.

“I’m not going to smoke in your aunt’s apartment,” Tony says, pulling a half-empty pack of Marlboros from his back pocket. The cigarette he holds delicately between his full lips is a lucky son of a bitch.

“I’ll sit with you,” Peter offers, sitting on the steps.

Tony shrugs, leaning against the brick building. “Suit yourself,” he says. Then he holds out the pack. “You smoke?”

Peter’s mouth gapes. May would freak if he ever came home smelling of smoke. “Uh—no. I mean, that is, I’ve never—uh—tried?”

Tony stares. He closes the pack.

“Wait—I mean, if you’re offering, I—”

“You don’t have to.”

“Could I, though?”

After a moment of hesitation, Tony opens the pack again. He thumbs one cigarette loose and hands it to Peter filter first. You know, like a true gentleman. Peter can feel how red his face is as he holds it, feeling so naughty, like May is liable to come around from behind the dumpster at any moment and catch him. God, he’d be so grounded.

“You know how?” Tony mouths from around his cigarette.

“Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

Tony’s mouth quirks upward. He’s still wearing the sunglasses, and Peter kind of hates that. If Tony is smiling, Peter wants to see the squint of his eyes, the glow of the mirth. He needs the full picture. As if by reading his mind, Tony pushes the glasses up to rest on his soft, dark hair. There comes a slick click, Tony flicking the lighter until a flame bursts forth.

Peter holds out the cigarette for the older boy to light. Tony’s lips twitch again, and that’s how he knows he’s done something wrong.

“Put it in your mouth,” Tony says, grinning when Peter turns red at the innuendo—there is the slightest gap between his front two teeth, and it’s so fucking charming. “Filter first.”

Swallowing, Peter parts his lips and Tony carefully places it in his mouth. Instinct has him closing his lips around the filter. He can’t help but think of other things Tony might so generously offer for Peter to put in his mouth. A sound comes out of Peter’s throat against his will, but Tony doesn’t seem to have heard it.

Tony holds up the lighter. “Now, when the tip is in the flame, you want to suck in, like it’s a straw. Don’t inhale, you’re just trying to get the flame to take. Ready?”

Peter can’t speak, doesn’t want to open his mouth and have the cigarette fall out. God, he’d look like a freaking idiot. A flick of Tony’s thumb conjures the flame and they meet in the middle, Tony’s eyes glued to Peter’s mouth—probably just watching to make sure he’s doing it right. Peter sucks in a few times, careful not to inhale the smoke.

“You got it,” Tony says. He pauses to take a drag, eyes closing to enjoy the taste, a connoisseur of all things mysterious. Peter’s mouth goes dry when Tony lets the smoke out of his nose. Smoking isn’t supposed to be sexy, but right now Peter can only think of Tony leaning forward and pressing their open mouths close enough that every exhale becomes Peter’s inhale. In an instant, he is hardening, shoving a hand into his pocket to try and adjust himself subtly. Tony smokes the cigarette down to the filter and then grinds it to dust under his boot.

“Now,” Tony continues. “And this is the important part—are you listening?”

Peter nods dumbly.

“Good. You’re going to suck again, but instead of letting it out of your mouth, just hold the smoke there.” Peter does as he says, reaching up to hold the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “Now when you pull the cigarette away, breathe in deep.”

He does. The smoke, cooled a little from resting in his mouth, goes down smoothly. It tastes like it smells, which isn’t to say it’s any good. His lungs itch with it, and it’s only a moment later that he’s letting out a heavy breath tinted with smoke. But he doesn’t cough or sputter like people do on TV the first time they try smoking, thank God. He’d be so embarrassed that he might have to switch schools. Leave the state. Change his name.

When he looks up, Tony is smirking.

“You got it. Now—” He pulls the cigarette from Peter’s lips and puts it in his own mouth. “—don’t smoke anymore. Don’t you know it’s fucking bad for you?”

Peter laughs. He can’t help it. Then he coughs, lungs irritated, doubling over at the waist. A glance shows that Tony is trying hard not to laugh, mouth bared in a full grin, looking resolutely away from Peter’s choking form. Then he lifts his shoe and grinds the barely-smoked cigarette out, tucking it back in his pack.

They go upstairs, because the elevator is always out of order. Peter is so nervous that he can’t unlock the door to his apartment with May—he knows that he needs to pull in on the door, turn the key hard, then shove with his shoulder, but suddenly it’s not working. Tony waits patiently, face inscrutable. At last the door opens and they go inside, Peter leading the way.

If the sight of Peter’s tiny apartment in Queens disturbs Tony, the older boy doesn’t show it. The coffee table is well worn with many scratches and dings in the legs. The afghan over the couch was made by May’s grandmother, with holes large enough now for Peter to put his fist through. There is the clutter of a home lived in, with a mantle crowded with pictures—he hopes that Tony doesn’t wander that way and see the one of Peter when he was five wearing Sesame Street briefs and nothing else. Tony didn’t look like he belonged in the warm, relaxed space, though he made himself at home on the loveseat, eyes scanning the room with a neutral look on his face.

“Sorry it’s—” Peter doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Sorry it’s modest? Sorry I’m poor?

“I like it,” Tony says. Whether or not he means it, Peter can’t say for sure. But Tony doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to lie, especially just to spare someone’s feelings.

“How did you know, by the way?” Peter asks, shrugging off his light jacket to hang it up in the closet. May freaks if he just throws it anywhere. Tony’s raised eyebrow beckons him to elaborate. “That I live here with my aunt.”

Tony sucks on his teeth, mouth pursing. “You’re smart,” he says at last. “Figure it out.”

Peter has absolutely no idea what to make of that. It kind of creeps him out, to be honest. Tony is hot, and so far he’s been kind to Peter and unkind to Peter’s enemies, but he really doesn’t know much about the older boy. And his reputation precedes him. He can’t help but trust him, though, this boy who had nudged his shoes off at the door to avoid getting dirt on his aunt’s rug.

“Do you want something to drink?” Peter asks, desperate for a moment in the kitchen and away from Tony’s gaze. “We’ve got uh—water? Grapefruit juice. Cola, but it’s generic. Sorry.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Alright. Cool. Be right back.”

In the kitchen, Peter freaks out a little, doing a goofy dance to shake out his trembling limbs. Tony Stark is in his living room! That’s a sentence he never thought he’d say—outside of his masturbatory fantasies, at least. Filling a glass with ice from the tray, he turns on the tap to fill it and then brings it back to Tony in the living room, hoping that his face isn’t flushed from his wild dancing in the other room.

“Here you go,” he says softly, putting the cup on the coffee table.

Tony reaches out, grabs a coaster, and places the drink on that. The look he gives Peter is sly, smirking. “Heathen,” Tony says. Peter has the feeling that Tony is teasing him. This whole day is so fucking surreal.

“That’s me,” Peter chokes.

“Nice picture,” Tony says, nodding to the mantle. “Sesame Street, huh?”

“Jesus,” Peter mutters, burying his face in his hands. “That’s not me, I swear. It’s just another kid who looks just like me. Honest.”

This time, Tony laughs. It’s a real laugh, his eyes squinting, full mouth parting to show his teeth. Peter can’t help but watch, eyes glued to that mouth. Even when the laughter dies out, Tony’s lips continue to twitch.

“So,” Peter says. “Not to, uh, pointedly change the subject away from my embarrassing childhood photos but—what did you—I mean—what did you have in mind? For the, the studying.”

Tony lounges back. His Black Sabbath shirt rides up showing toned, tan stomach and a line of dark hair and swirls just beneath his navel. Peter’s mouth dries up. He should have gotten that water for himself. “Studying is the last thing on my mind, Parker.”

“Uh—sorry. What?”

“Come on. You really don’t know?”

Peter feels lost. His mouth opens and closes, unsure how to reply.

“You _really_ don’t know,” Tony says, shaking his head. On his thigh, his fingers are tapping out an anxious beat. He won’t look Peter in the eye. “I was trying to be subtle, but not _this_ subtle. Usually when I want to fuck somebody, I just ask.”

“My brain is about to explode,” Peter says, rubbing at one temple. “What are you trying to say? I’m not following.”

“I—" Tony pauses, licks his lips. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say that the older boy was nervous. “I like you, Parker. I’d like to, I don’t know. Fuck. Take you out to a movie. That new superhero flick is playing. Do you like that sort of shit?”

Peter’s ears started ringing right after the word fuck. Tony Stark. Wanted to fuck. _Him_? He could feel his mouthgo lax with surprise, eyes unblinking. The longer he stared, the faster Tony’s fingers drummed against his thigh.

“This is the part where you say yes or no,” Tony suggests.

“I—I’m. I’ve never—" Peter can’t even finish the sentence, it’s so pitiful. His face burns like the sun is in his cheeks. He’s already half hard, though his anxiety keeps him from growing any more than half-mast.

Tony blinks. “You’ve never been on a date?”

“N-no. Well, I mean, yeah, that too. But. I’ve never. _You_ know.”

“Fucked?”

Peter nods, shyly. He can’t even look at the older boy, just stares at his lap now, fingering the beginning of a hole at the knee of his jeans. How embarrassing it is, and it isn’t even the worst of it. Peter’s never done anything with another person.

But he wants to. God, he wants to.

Then a terrible thought comes to mind, one that sours in his gut and makes his vision go fuzzy with horror.

“Are you, like, serious?” Peter asks lowly. “Or, I mean, is this...a joke?”

“What kind of fucking joke would that be?” Tony asks. He looks just as pale as Peter feels, watching with dark, serious eyes.

Peter shrugs, hanging his shaking hands between his knees-. “Definitely seems like something Flash would do. Flash or his friends.”

“Is that the kind of guy you think I am? An asshole like that?”

Peter looks up. Tony’s face is serious. His fingers are still. “No,” he admits. “I don’t think you’re that kind of guy.”

Tony’s lips quirk upwards. “Good. That asshole, Flash? If he so much as looks at you again? I’ll beat his fucking _ass_, baby. You say the word. I hear how people talk about me. Mr. Brewer says I’m like a mad dog with no leash, you know that? But—I’ve got a leash, and it’s in your hands. Fuck. Only if you want it.”

Those words have weight. Like a fist pressed against his sternum, they knock all the breath out of him and leave him panting. A whine comes out of his throat. He wishes he could have recorded those words so he could hear them again and again. Tony called him _baby_.

Tony’s eyes darken at the sound Peter makes. He sits up from wearing he was lounging. “You like that, Pete? You like knowing how much control you have over me?”

“I—I don’t know,” Peter says, clasping his hands in his lap. Tony glances down and it’s impossible to miss Peter’s erection, the way he is rubbing his knuckles against it.

“Jesus,” Tony says, licking his lips. “You want this, Pete? You want _me_? You can have me, baby boy. Just need to say so.”

“Yes,” Peter admits, his voice cracking. “But T-Tony. I’ve never even kissed anybody before. I have no idea what I’m doing. I wouldn’t even know where to start—“

Tony puts a hand on his knee, thumb slipping through the hole in his jeans to rub his bare skin. Peter’s cock twitches. How that single square inch of skin on skin contact can make him feel like blowing a load in his jeans, he has no idea.

“I can show you,” Tony says. “If you’re sure you want it.”

“I’m sure,” Peter says softly, smiling through his blush. “I-I’ll try to be a good student.”

Tony groans. “I’m sure you’ll be the best student. So fucking smart, aren’t you baby boy? I spend half our classes together just staring at the back of your cute head, hoping against hope that you’ll answer a question just so I can hear your voice.”

“I never knew,” Peter says, awed. Tony’s hand is creeping up his thigh, and Peter takes his hands away from where his erection obscenely tents at his jeans to give him room.

“I was trying to be subtle,” says Tony. “I didn’t want to scare you off. Wasn’t sure if you were interested.”

“God yes,” Peter admits. His cock aches fiercely, a damp warmth at the head wear he leaks precum. If Tony doesn’t touch him soon, he might die. “Tony, please, I need—“ he stops abruptly, unsure of what he needs. Something. _Anything_. 

“Lesson one,” Tony says. He cups Peter’s jaw, thumb stroking the outer corner of the thin lips. “Kissing. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Tony kisses him. Peter has watched enough porn to know that closed-mouth kisses are for grandma’s and old married couples. They meet with their lips have parted, and Tony’s are fuller and softer than they look. He feels the tentative brush of a tongue against his bottom lip and reaches out with his own. They softly lick into each other’s mouth, and it is so sexual, so intimate that tears come to his eyes. He reaches down to squeeze his cock until it hurts. Cumming in his pants would probably embarrass him to death.

Tony’s hand gently comes down over his own, not trying to coax it away, just running a comforting thumb over Peter’s knuckles. When his thumb slips off of Peter’s hand and brushes his aching cock, Peter keens into the older boy’s mouth. Tony pulls back and groans, his breath brushing Peter’s open, eager mouth.

“Okay,” says Tony, running his fingers through the curls at the back of Peter’s neck. “Okay that’s a good start. Your foundation is excellent. Let’s try out some more advanced techniques.”

They kiss again, long wet strokes of their tongues. Peter feels his nerves melting away, condensing into liquid arousal that has his heart stuttering. Then Tony takes Peter’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking softly. The groan Peter gives is indecent, eyelids fluttering as he feels the sharp ridge of Tony’s teeth dig gently into the abused flesh. A hand presses firmly on Peter’s chest, coaxing him backwards into the couch, and Tony follows, a warm, hard presence above him.

They make out for ages, mouths raw and red. Tony guides one of Peter’s hands to his hair and god, yes, it feels just as soft as he always imagined that it would when he tangles his finger in it. Tony shifts, pelvis dragging across Peter’s aching cock, and the younger boy groans, fingers tightening until he is tugging harshly at Tony’s scalp. His eyes slit open and he loses any worries he has about hurting the boy above him: Tony is red cheeked, eyes shut in ecstasy, mouth open as he presses more firmly against the hand that hurts him.

By the time Tony pulls away, Peter is harder than he’s ever been. His balls ache with every throb of his pulse, hips unable to stop their little aborted thrusts up into the hard cradle of the other boy’s thighs. Tony kneels over him, appraising, panting.

“When does your aunt come home?”

“She works 2nd shift, so not until midnight.”

“Thank God. Want to go to your room?”

Peter’s room is a juvenile thing: posters on the walls, one of Einstein’s famous tongue-out portrait, one of the period table, only for dogs (both gifts from Ned). There are dirty clothes in a pile by the closet door, and his computer’s screensaver is a picture of him and Ned and MJ at the Statue of Liberty, when MJ is giving him rabbit ears. The sheets and pillowcases don’t match, and there is still a rumpled spot in the blankets where Peter had nested before rolling out of bed at dawn. That Peter was of a different time—he didn’t even exist anymore.

“What’s next?” Peter asks, eager and anxious all in one. He hopes that whatever is next will bring some relief to his cock.

“It’s up to you, Pete.”

“But I-I don’t really know what I want,” Peter admits, blushing hotly. Tony sits on the edge of his bed, dark clothes contrasting starkly with the warm colors around him.

“Can I touch you?” Tony asks, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks remarkably serious. Between his spread legs is a bulge that makes Peter’s mouth water. Maybe he _does_ know what he wants. After he nods, Tony continues: “Can I taste you? Suck bruises all over your pretty body? Can I put my tongue inside you, lick you open? Can I fuck you?”

Peter can’t speak, nods mutely, one hand palming at his aching cock. Tony’s eyes darken. 

“Come here,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “I want to suck you off.”

Peter crosses the room, knees shaking. He steps between Tony’s open legs. The bed sits low enough that Tony can mouth at Peter’s abs, tucking up his shirt to lick a burning line up them. One hand reaches up, thumb circling a sensitive nipple, and Peter’s head tips back, hips thrusting, soft breathy sighs and whines filling the room.

“Fucking look at you. Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking beautiful. Can’t wait to get my mouth on your cock.”

Peter pushes back, lamenting the loss of those skilled fingers plucking at his nipples. He pants, desperate for breath, red-faced with what he wants to ask.

“What is it, baby boy?” asks Tony. “You want something? Just have to ask me for it and I’ll give it to you.”

Peter drops to his knee, putting his palms on the older boy’s thighs. He looks through his lashes, anxious for an answer: “Can I—may I—suck _you_?”

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “You want to?”

“_Yes_,” Peter says. It comes out long and breathy. The idea of it has his mouth watering, chest rising and falling with breaths he can’t slow. “Yes, please? Will you teach me how?”

Groaning, Tony nods. He scoots until his ass is at the edge of the bed and palms at his belt. Peter has had so many fantasies featuring that belt, the sounds it would make as he opened it, the skin-warmed metal under his fingers. An image comes to mind: that belt cinching his wrists tight, nearly to bruising. Or _wrapped around his throat_, Tony’s hand holding the loose end.

“What, baby?” Tony asks, pausing.

“Huh?”

“You made a noise. What is it?”

“Just—just your belt. I—can we—I mean, there are uses for a belt right?” Peter’s voice grows soft and conspiratorial. “During s-_sex_.”

Tony hums. “What did you have it mind?”

But he can’t say it. The thought makes his face burn, a mixture of arousal and shame. He shakes his head, embarrassed tears burning at his eyes. Tony reaches out with a large hand, rubs a thumb against the tender skin beneath Peter’s eye.

“You can’t tell me?” Peter shakes his head again, grateful that Tony seemed to understand. The older boy hums. He takes one of Peter’s hands and wraps it around his larger wrist. “Then show me, baby. Show me wear you want it. You don’t have to say a thing.”

Somehow, that makes it so much easier. Peter takes Tony’s open, pliant hand and puts his thin wrist in it. Tony tightens his fingers, like a threat that Peter can hardly wait for him to make good on. The younger boy groans, and Tony tightens his hand again, the shape of his fingers staying for a few moments even after he draws them away.

“That’s what you want, baby boy? You want me to wrap my belt around your tiny little wrists? Tie them to the headboard?”

Peter whines. His tongue feels too thick to make words. He takes Tony’s hand again and, shaking, brings it up to his throat. Tony’s breath catches, warm fingers wrapping around Peter’s neck, thumb resting in the hollow of his throat. “Yeah?” Tony breathes. “You want me to wrap my belt around your neck? Choke your pretty lights out? God. Poor baby boy. So kinky, and nobody was around to show you how, were they?”

Peter shakes his head, panting, squeezing around Tony’s fingers to coax him into putting more pressure. His air becomes sparse, and his cock jerks, leaking. All at once, Tony’s hand is gone, and Peter groans, shifting forward to chase it.

“Hey—Pete. Listen to me. This is important. You want to stop, you just say stop. Or no. If you can’t talk, pinch me, hard as you can, okay? You understand?”

“Yes,” Peter croaks. His hand comes down to palm his desperate cock, hips twitching up into his touch. “Please, Tony—please, I feel like I’m dying.”

Tony’s eyes glitter like coals. He grabs Peter’s wrist to pull it away from where he’s groping himself. “No touching yourself, baby boy. You said you wanted to learn to suck cock? I’m going to teach you. But I think we need to take temptation out of the way, don’t we?” With a firm hand on the shoulder, he turns Peter around. Then Peter hears the rasp of Tony’s belt being drawn free from the loops. He shudders all over, goosebumps bursting to life on his arms and legs. Tony draws his hands behind his back and wraps the belt around them until they are cinched together tight.

It feels better than Peter could have imagined. The surrender, the helplessness. Tony helps him turn around since his wrists are incapacitated, and then he finishes unbuttoning his pants and shifts them down past his knees.

Tony isn’t wearing underwear. His cock springs free, long, thick, red as Peter’s cheeks. His mouth waters, throat swallowing convulsively. Like it’s a magnet and he’s metal, Peter finds himself drifting forward, mouth falling open on instinct. Then he pauses, nerves flooding his blood. He looks up through his eyelashes at the hungry, horny look on Tony’s face, but still he wants to tremble in anxiety. What if he does it _wrong_? What if Tony laughs at him?

“What is it, Pete?” Tony asks, petting a hand through the boy’s hair while the other holds his own cock steady. “Talk to me.”

“Want to be good for you,” Peter mumbles.

“You couldn’t be bad for me. It’s my cock and your cute mouth. Anything you do with it would feel like heaven. But we don’t have to do this at all. I could suck you off. Or we could go out there, sit on your couch, and watch a fucking movie or something. I—I don’t want you to feel like—_fuck_. Am I pressuring you right now? Jesus, _I tied up your fucking hands_—”

“No,” Peter yelps. His hands strain against the belt, but it doesn’t give, and god that makes his cock ache fiercely. “I—I want it! I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“I’ll walk you through it, if you want me to,” Tony says. His hand, which was previously holding his cock still, now begins to work it over subconsciously. Peter watches raptly, the thick head disappearing and reappearing in Tony’s grip. “But I mean it: Christ, I could probably just blow my load if you breathed on me. I’ve been thinking about you since last spring. You were in that fucking school play—I don’t fucking remember what it was about, I was too busy just staring at you. I’m in deep, here.”

Peter fucking glows. He feels like there’s a fire in his chest, burning him up from the inside out. This is so much better than he ever dreamed it could be. Everything in him quivers, thinking it to be just a cruel joke, but he sees the authenticity on Tony’s face. The intensity with which the older boy looks at him makes him shake and shiver.

“You know what would make me feel best?” Tony says, voice low. A bead of precum bursts at the head of his cock and drips over his knuckles. Peter wants to follow it with his tongue. “Honest to God? Just you doing whatever you want. Short of biting it off. Will you do that Pete? Play with my cock? Do what feels right?”

When Peter’s mouth opens to answer, all that comes out is a whine. He nods. It can’t be that hard, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. All he needs to do is let his instincts lead him, to just have fun. His days of overthinking are over. He _thinks_. Taking a deep breath, Peter opens his eyes to stare at the cock in front of him. He wants it. He takes it.

Leaning forward, Peter opens his mouth and drags his tongue across the head. The taste of cum bursts across his tastebuds and he groans, mirrored by Tony above him, cursing up a storm. Without his hands, Peter is content to let his own cock become secondary, to focus on the boy in front of him. Not wanting to push himself too far too soon, he just takes the head into his mouth, suckling on it softly. More precum beads at the tip and he licks it away with his tongue, tracing the slit. Above him spews the filthiest praise that has his own cock dripping. Instead of taking the rest of it into his mouth, he pulls back to place hot, open-mouthed kisses along the shaft. The skin feels like velvet under his tongue. When the erection jumps, he whines, chasing it with his lips.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. “You’re going to kill me. I think I’m dying. Can I die from a blowjob?”

Peter pulls back. “Google says maybe, if you have a heart condition.”

Tony laughs louder than Peter has ever heard him. It cuts off into a groan when Peter puts his mouth back to work, rubbing his tongue against the spot just behind the head. He closes his eyes, takes in the masculine scent, the heat. He follows the shaft down and then mouths at the balls, and Tony grabs at Peter’s hair, cursing. Peter tunes in long enough to understand the words being muttered, a litany of _don’t stop, god please don’t stop—_

Pulling back, Peter decides it’s time. He’s ready. He needs it in his mouth, nudging the back of his throat. He takes the cock as deep as he can—which admittedly is not as deep as he’d hoped. When it reaches the beginning of his throat, he swallows on instinct, and above him, Tony hisses. Breathing deeply, Peter tries to relax and take more. Instead, he chokes, gagging. But judging by the sound Tony makes, he likes that too.

“God, feels so fucking good. You like that, baby? You like choking on my cock?”

Peter groans, nodding as best as he can. To prove it, he leans in again, taking too much until he gags. His mouth fills with spit, eyes burning. The sound is undignified, so fucking hot. Thank god his hands are restrained, because otherwise he’d be jerking himself towards a fast finish.

“Keep doing that and I’ll cum,” Tony grunts. “Fuck, look at you. You’re crying. Why are you crying baby? Too much?”

Peter pulls off, rubbing the wet cock against his cheek gently. “No,” he croaks, voice raw. “No it’s not too much, please, I want more—”

Tony looks like he’s being tortured. He grabs Peter’s hair and guides him back to his cock, licking his lips at the picture Peter makes when he opens his mouth obediently. “Gonna take my load, baby boy? Gonna swallow me down? Or you want me to pull out and cum all over your pretty face?”

Peter sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks, laving his tongue against what he can. God, he hopes that Tony doesn’t pull out (even though that’s certainly an idea—maybe one for later). If Tony’s precum is any indication of how he’ll taste, Peter knows he can take it. He wants it. He feels like he might die without it—

“Here it comes, Pete, god. _Fuck_!” All the breath goes out of Tony, his cock twitching in Peter’s mouth. Cum fills his cheeks and he swallows once, twice, groaning. It isn’t the best thing in the world, but he feels so fucking sexy for this, so fucking turned on by it. By himself. The confidence gives him a headrush, makes his pulse jump.

“Jesus,” Tony pants, pulling his mostly-hard cock from between Peter’s lips. He thumbs at the corner of the younger boy’s mouth, and Peter lets his tongue come loose to lick at it gently, tasting sweat and skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Parker. Fuck me. I can’t believe I wasted so much time pussyfooting around.”

“_To-ny_,” Peter groans, drawing the word out. Now that Tony’s cum and there’s no more cock to suck, Peter remembers his own aching arousal. His balls are tight and painful, cock pressed uncomfortably into an angle where it’s still stuffed into his jeans. His wrists tug at the belt, stinging, but he doesn’t feel like he can form any words beyond the older boy’s name, his head fuzzy.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Tony assures. He slides off the bed, reaches around Peter to undo the belt around his wrists. There are red marks, raw, that ache when Tony rubs them tenderly. Peter shivers pleasantly, hips jerking. “You hurting, baby? Need to cum?”

“Please,” Peter breathes. “Please, help me.”

“I’ve got you, baby boy. Lean against me okay, turn, just like this.” His back pressed to Tony’s chest, legs shaking, Tony reaches around and undoes Peter’s jeans. From this vantage point, Peter has the most incredible view: tanned hands unzipping his fly, reaching in to maneuver through the opening of Peter’s boxers.

The first touch of skin on skin hurts so good. Peter keens, hips thrusting. Tony hushes him, a hand pressed flat against Peter’s twitching abs. There is no teasing, Peter is beyond that now. Tony makes a firm circle of fingers for Peter to thrust up into. A hot mouth sucks bruises against his neck, teeth dragging firmly across his pulse point. When Tony talks dirty, Peter can feel his lips move against his skin.

“You’re fucking my fist, Peter. Look at yourself.” Peter hasn’t taken his eyes off them, the blur of tanned fingers against his red, flushed cock, glistening with precum. “Does that feel good, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter pants, thighs shaking.

“You gonna cum for me?”

Peter nods. He can feel it coming, the magnitude of his orgasm blooming in his gut and his balls, the pressure so good it hurts. He’s never been this turned on, this hard, not in his whole life. He chases it, mindless, his whole world condensing down to the hand on his cock, the lips at his neck, the hard lines of Tony pressing against his back.

“Do it, then,” Tony says. “Cum for daddy, yeah?”

He cums with a shriek that turns into a pained groan, cock spurting hard enough that cum reaches his rug in the center of the room. His balls clench once, twice, three times, four, and each one hits him like a fist to his gut, no more breath, no more thoughts, no more anything. Tony works him through it, squeezing every last drop from his exhausted cock, reaching down to gently fondle Peter’s aching, oversensitive balls. When he finally comes to, he is shaking all over, little pitiful noises being pulled from his throat. Sweat cools all over him, except for where Tony’s forehead presses against his neck.

“I’m done for you,” Tony is murmuring. “You hear that? I’m done in by you.”

Peter knows how he feels. Slowly, the high wears off, but Tony is no less tender. Before today, Peter never would have imagined that a tender Tony Stark existed, but he does. He’s in Peter’s room, helping him scrub cum out of the rug. Then he’s on Peter’s couch, dressed, putting his arm around Peter and telling him _put on whatever _you_ want, okay? I’ll probably just be staring at you anyway._

When midnight comes near, Tony slips his feet into his shoes by the door. Peter wrings his hands. He isn’t sure where this leaves them. He isn’t sure where they stand now, or tomorrow, or after Tony’s suspension when he returns to school.

Tony pulls the peer tutoring sheet out of his backpack. But then he tears the corner off and scribbles on it. “This is my number,” he says. “Text me, sometime. Not to be a needy bitch, but text me _soon_. If you want.”

Peter’s heart skips. He clutches the number in his palm like it’s made of solid gold. “Okay,” Peter breathes. “I can do that.”

They kiss, and it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. It doesn’t feel like a _thanks for the good time, see ya never. _It feels like a promise.

“Do you want me to sign that sheet for you?” Peter asks, breathless.

Tony smirks. “No. Gives me a real good reason to come back.”

Then he is gone, his dark figure disappearing down the hallway and the stairs. Peter closes the door and locks the deadbolt, turning to press his back against the wood. He presses the cellphone number to his heart.

And if Tony’s phones has a text before he’s even reached his car, that is between the two of them and no one else.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and criticism welcome. see me on tumblr to see what i'm working on next. cagestark


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